


All the times I've loved you, mine

by ambiengrey



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, I'll add relationship and character tags as I go, canon-divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-12 13:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiengrey/pseuds/ambiengrey
Summary: Unrelated one-shots depicting moments that form and influence the relationships between parents and children of the Batfam.





	1. Chapter 1

Alfred had always known he would be in service to the Wayne household, as his father before him had been. It was the conditions of that servitude he could, however, not possibly have foreseen or expected.

Alfred had still been awake when the call came.

Then still detective, Gordon had sounded weary, but sincere over the line. Informative even as he offered his condolences, aware as all of Gotham that the closest kin either Thomas or his wife Martha Wayne had, were worlds away – figuratively speaking, of course – and none were as much family, or could offer as much comfort to the young, scarred child sitting by himself in an office at the police station, as their butler possibly could just then. Gordon had wrapped the young master Bruce in his uniform jacket, and the boy’s hands had never seemed so small, or gripped anything so tight, as in that lonely moment before he noticed Alfred in the doorway.

In hindsight, Alfred didn’t know whether Master Bruce had said his name or not, before he’d leapt from his seat and all but ran the three steps towards him. Alfred had taken a knee, scooped the boy into his arms and stood with him, Bruce’s arms wrapped all the way round Alfred’s neck, legs hanging limp as though without any more strength. Alfred had clung to Bruce as much as the boy had clung to him.

And, even though Alfred had set him down moments later, walked him back to his seat and repositioned the fallen jacket about his shoulders, they had, in actuality, never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me, I'm just having a wild time.


	2. Chapter 2

Heavily, Bruce trudged upstairs from the cave, coming into his father’s study through the hidden doorway. He let the old grandfather clock swing closed in front of the entrance while he all but collapsed into the nearest armchair. Everything ached. Not only the muscle he’d pulled punching a thief’s teeth in, or the ribs he’d bruised fighting off illegal arms dealers and their gang of hired thugs, but—

His heart, too, still bore the weight of his loss, and, hitting his way through Gotham’s crime-ridden underbelly wasn’t doing much, if anything, to assuage the pain of that.

He sighed, looked to the portrait of his parents, hanging life-like behind his father’s broad mahogany desk. Their faces smiled at him, and, in his mother’s hold he was, arms akimbo, eyes wide, mouth smiling. It was difficult sometimes, to think he had been that small. Not to mention his parents were years younger in the portrait than how he remembered them.

At 37 he was somewhere in the middle of their portrait-faces and the faces of his memories. Looking in the mirror was a little like seeing his father’s jawline mid-transformation; morphing from the smooth youthful outline of the painting into the firmly set, rugged edge of his memories; a somewhat altered version of his mother’s eyes changing at the corners from the slight pinch in the portrait, to slowly becoming the crow’s feet in his recollection of her laughing face.

It was harrowing, and strange, to see and think of. But sometimes, he consoled himself with the notion that, in his own face, lay a closeness to his parents he could find some semblance of comfort in on the days he missed them terribly.

What concerned others, there was nowhere in himself to find such comfort for their passing. He was nearly 22 years older than his second son would _ever_ become, and moreover, they were not related by blood, and the resemblance, if any, was less a truth of fact and more an illusion of proximity and obtained similarity.

Besides which, Bruce had not had the strength to look at a picture of Jason in weeks.

His throat burned, and he shut his eyes tight, pressing fingers against closed eyelids, willing the responding tears away.

He missed the quiet _whirr_ of the grandfather clock swinging this way and that in announcement of Alfred’s entrance.

“I believe I ordered you to bed, sir.”

Bruce started from his reverie, looking blinkingly up at Alfred, feeling inexplicably small.

“I’m not a child, Alfred,” he croaked, cleared his throat, winced as he pushed himself from the chair. “Don’t,” he added, though Alfred’s expression had remained stoic enough and he hadn’t moved to help.

Bruce started about toward the door, but paused, half turning back, “Any luck reaching Dick..?”

“Not yet, sir,” Alfred replied, then ventured, “Perhaps the Justice League’s—”

“No,” Bruce said. “It’s not their concern. You can stop trying.”

“With all due respect, sir, Dick cared a great deal about him; he deserves to know.”

“I’m not arguing _that_ ,” Bruce replied. “But I’ve reconsidered. I’ll tell him in person.”

“It may be months – years, even – before he makes it back.”

“Then _that’s_ what it takes,” Bruce said firmly, leveling Alfred’s gaze with a weary glare. “Besides, he shouldn’t have to deal with the news by himself.”

“He’s hardly alone, sir,” Alfred countered.

“He should be with his family—” he cut off, knowing even as he said it, that of course Dick considered the Titans a second – or third – family, and they loved him just as much as Bruce or Alfred did. He hated to think it, but he wasn’t sure with how strained their relationship had become the past handful of years, since before Jason came into their lives, that Dick even still considered him family. He hadn’t said it, but Bruce still loved Dick and cared for him, and missed him – now more than ever before, especially because they weren’t able to contact him off-world as he was. Bruce wanted him home, and safe, not somewhere in the universe where Bruce couldn’t protect another son. At the same time, though, Bruce couldn’t imagine what Dick might say, or think, if he heard about Jason. It was selfish and inappropriate, but he was almost scared Dick would hate him – even more. Wrestling still with coming to terms with what happened with Jason, he wasn’t sure he could handle Dick’s resentment, too. “Hng,” Bruce squeezed one hand into a fist, shook his head. “Stop arguing, Alfred,” he said, and turned back to the doorway, slouched as he plodded forward.

“ _Yes_. Master Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this contradicts canon, but what is canon even. >.>  
> Don't mind me, I'm just having a time. B)


	3. Chapter 3

Stars spark across his vision; a new kind of darkness blossoming in patches all over the usual black of Gotham’s nighttime. His blurred, blackened vision is accompanied by a burst of pain at his temple that stings sharply then throbs.

His heart is racing and he might be shaking. It takes a long moment for him to realize he’s not standing anymore. His knees must have buckled, but he hadn’t even felt the hit to the ground for the pain in his head.

It isn’t a second later that he feels himself swept off the ground and with the motion, panic takes hold. He hasn’t the strength to move, maneuver himself from the firm grip that has him about the back and shoulders, and beneath his knees. He can’t see – eyes shut tight as if that might lessen the pain in his head, and besides, he’s _ashamed_ to realize, he’s crying. At least he’s not sobbing audibly, but his throat burns at the resistance, while the tears gather at his lashes, and then pools behind the eyelids of his mask when he blinks them free, no way for them to roll down his cheeks.

The best he can do is to desperately thrash about, try to wriggle his arms free, kick out with his legs; trying to dislodge himself, however unceremoniously, from his kidnapper’s hold. Once he’s dropped to the floor, he figures, he could make a run for it, call to Batman, so long as he’s not restrained this way—

“ _Robin_ ,” the low grumble of Batman’s voice just above him makes him go immediately still, breath hitching in his throat. His knees drop, legs no longer held up, and then he’s being pressed tightly against the body that holds him, as the cool night air comes rushing past – they’re moving; upward.

Every muscle has gone tight, and while he wants something to hold onto, his arms are pressed firmly to his sides, Batman’s arm wrapped all the way around him. A moment later they’re stationary, and he’s set onto his feet ever so gently. His heart is still pounding, from the hit to the head, and the panic, and the adrenalin and the realization that he wasn’t being kidnapped after all. His knees feel weak. He’s afraid he might collapse if not for Batman’s hold – large, solid hands on his shoulders.

The sob finds him then; a loud, gasped squeak from the back of his throat. He clasps his hands across his mouth, and his knees nearly do buckle. Batman holds him firmly upright. He’s almost certain Batman is speaking to him, but the words aren’t registering.

His eyes are still closed, and his head bowed, and he can feel the tears starting to slowly leak in under his mask. His throat _burns_ , but he _will not_ sob again.

He needs to push this aside. It was only a little hit to the head. He’s _Robin_. Robin doesn’t cry.

Robin. Does _not_. Cry.

“Dickie,” Batman whispers though, and he shrinks a little into himself. He can’t be Dick Grayson right now. He needs to be Robin. For Batman. He can’t be crying. Robin can’t be crying. He shakes his head, opens his eyes, blinking more tears off his lashes. There’s no way to wipe at his eyes with the mask covering them.

“’m fine,” he attempts from behind his hands, but it’s pitiful and small. His bottom lip trembles involuntarily; if he can’t stop crying, Batman’s going to bench him. He’ll never be Robin again.

“You’re not,” Batman says, and he shakes his head in response but Batman doesn’t care. “ _Sit_ ,” Batman all but orders, large hands pressing down on hunched shoulders. His knees have started shaking anyway. He _drops_ more than sits, but Batman goes down with him, still holding firm, keeping him from hitting the rooftop hard.

He wants to apologize, but he’s afraid if he drops his hands the sobs will leak out. They do, inaudibly, just a shake and a hitch of breath one after another, when Batman pries his fingers loose, and gently lowers his hands onto his lap. He finds he hasn’t any more resistance to offer.

Batman removes his gauntlets and his fingers find the edges of his mask. It pulls off more easily where the tears have leaked under.

He clenches his hands against his thighs, keeps his eyes lowered at the ground.

Batman makes no comment on the tears. Somehow that makes him feel worse. Instead, Batman pushes back his fringe, and he flinches when his fingers brush against the newly-obtained bump. Batman makes a noise – of disapproval. He inspects the area with a small flashlight pulled from the utility belt, gently pressing against the wound.

Very carefully, he doesn’t flinch again, or hiss, or _cries_.

Batman’s fingers are under his chin the next moment, pushing his bowed head up. He doesn’t raise his eyes, though.

“Robin,” Batman says. “I need to check your eyes.”

He wants to shake his head and look away and claim to be fine again, but then Batman’s thumb runs across his cheek, wiping at the wet tearstains there, and he knows it’s useless to pretend he hasn’t been crying. So he looks up, nostrils flaring at a sudden intake and release of breath. He swallows hard past a lump in his sore throat.

Batman’s little light shifts this way and that across his vision, but he keeps his eyes on the white slits of the cowl, imagining Batman’s blue eyes squinting at him. There’s a rush of heat beneath his skin, brought on by the embarrassment and shame he feels.

“You’re concussed,” Batman declares, finally lowering the light. He rummages through his belt again, and then he’s gently wiping the wounded area clean with a soft cloth, before carefully rubbing some ointment or other into the lump against his hairline.

“’m sorry,” he squeaks out, eyes lowering and then shutting again tightly. He can’t keep the sobs in any longer.

He cries, uncontrollably, bending forward, all the more into himself the louder he gets. Batman’s pulled back, but—

It’s only for a moment. Batman’s pushed him gently upright by the shoulders, snaked an arm about his torso, and pulled him into his lap. His head rests against Batman’s shoulder. Batman’s wrapped both arms all around him, is stroking his hair, careful not to brush against the bruised bit.

He shakes all over, and can’t seem to stop for the longest moment.

It’s only once the sobs have lessened, his breathing slowly starting to even out, that Batman speaks.

“It’s alright, Dick,” Bruce says, and when no reply is forthcoming, he adds almost urgently, “Don’t fall asleep.”

He shakes his head slightly, his wet cheek pulling this way and that against the bat-suit. “’m not,” he mumbles.

“Good,” he can feel Bruce sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, before he can change his mind. “I wasn’t being careful enough—”

Bruce shushes him before he can get any further, “It’s not your fault. I should have been quicker.” He wants to protest, because Batman was already taking on three opponents at once, and it was Robin’s job to be the distraction. He’d been caught cocky and off-guard. He should have done better. His lips thin and he’s not sure how to protest or plead, or if he even has the strength for it, but he _wants_ to insist on still being Robin _before_ Batman can dismiss him of the position.

“Let’s get you home,” Batman says before he can gather his thoughts, though.

“No!” he says at once, pulling off Bruce’s chest and sitting upright, levelling his best glare at the cowl. “I’m Robin—” his voice cracks. “You _can’t_ , please—”

“Dickie; _chum_ ,” Bruce says, putting one hand against Dick’s face and pushing the cowl back with the other. It’s hard to tell, because there’s not much light this high up to illuminate his face, but—

He could almost swear Batman’s eyes are puffier than what sleep-deprivation usually equates to…

“You have a concussion,” Bruce says firmly. “Alfred would skin me alive if I kept you out here in this condition.”

He bites his bottom lip; blinks, swallows. “I’m…” he doesn’t know how to adequately finish that sentence with prospect of Alfred’s wrath looming. “…Okay,” he concedes.

“There’s a good lad,” Bruce says, and shifts as if to lift him from his lap, but he holds fast to Bruce’s shoulders a moment, and Bruce settles back into his seat, expectant.

He swallows. “Are…are you mad at me?” he whispers, not meeting Bruce’s eyes.

“Heavens, no,” Bruce says easily and immediate. “Why on earth would you think that?”

He sniffles, rubbing furiously at his nose. “I—I can’t even—” he chews at his lip.

“Dick—”

“H-handle a little b-bump to the head, and—”

“That was anything but _little_ ,” Bruce says fiercely, and the force of his tone makes him jump. “I—I’m sorry,” Bruce says, more quietly, rubbing circles across his back. “…You’re still a child, Dick. And…when I saw you take the hit, and – _drop_ like that…”

Tears swell in his eyes again, his chest heavy with the memory of his parents – _dropping_ —

He’s flung his arms around Bruce’s neck before he can think on it twice. “I’ll never leave you,” he promises. “I’ll be better next time. No one will ever get me like that again, ever.”

Bruce’s shoulders droop a little, but he also squeezes a little tighter. “You’re…you’re incredible, Dickie; do you know that? You’re going to be amazing at this. Better than I could ever be.”

It makes him giggle, because he doubts it very much, but feels a little proud and flattered to hear it. He pulls back, “I have to recover from a concussion first,” he says, quips.

Batman laughs, a soft, quick thing easily missed. “Let’s get on that, then,” he says, pulling the cowl back in place.

He reaches back for the gauntlets and hands them to Batman one at a time to pull on. He nods once, firmly, and then winces at the way it makes his head swim. He’s all too aware of Batman watching him carefully so he knows Batman noticed. He tries to brush it off all the same, making to scoot out of Batman’s lap, but Batman holds him fast the way he’d done before, and comes smoothly to his feet with him in his arms.

He clings to Batman’s shoulders, feeling immeasurably safe.

“My mask,” he says, realizing he has no idea where Batman had put it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Batman replies, and he’s aware now Batman had stood with one end of his cape in one hand, effectively providing cover for his exposed features once he’s tugged it neatly overhead and settled comfortably against Batman’s shoulder.

He grins.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Batman warns again, but despite the dull ache at his temple, and the lingering burn in his throat or the heaviness of his eyes from crying,

“I wouldn’t miss this,” he says, peering out from beneath the cape.

“Hnn,” is all the reply he gets, lilting at the edges with amusement. Batman drops from the building, holding him fast with one arm while the other launches a line through the night and Batman’s cape only half-bellows as they swing homeward.


End file.
